Tobit's Dog: A Novel

By Michael N. Richard

Despite the ever-present oppression of the Jim Crow South around him, Tobit Messager had become a prosperous and well-respected man. Then one day forces beyond his control start a cascade of misfortune that leaves him blind and nearly destitute. It is then that an affable travelling musician, who calls himself Ace Redbone, shows up on his doorstep claiming to be a distant relative.

In an effort to alleviate his family's dire situation, Tobit allows his son, Tobias, to accompany Ace Redbone on a quest to collect a long overdue debt. Together, Ace, Tobias, and a most peculiar dog named Okra set off on a journey that will lead to unexpected consequences. Currents of grace begin rippling through not only Tobit's family but his entire community as hidden crimes are revealed and justice, which had almost been despaired of, is served.

This retelling of the biblical story of Tobit, set in North Carolina during the Depression, brings to life in surprising ways the beloved Old Testament characters, including the important but often overlooked family dog.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ignatius Press
• Release date: Mar 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781681495989

Book preview

TOBIT’S DOG

Michael Nicholas Richard

TOBIT’S DOG

IGNATIUS PRESS    SAN FRANCISCO

Cover photograph by Milo Persic

With the assistance of Neil Westmoreland and James Bryant of Walkertown, NC

Cover design by Milo Persic

© 2014 by Ignatius Press, San Francisco

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-58617-909-0

Library of Congress Control Number 2013920838

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

One

A flood of scent unfolded around Okra. He wanted to follow the interwoven ribbons of odor in a compulsive exploration. There was the smell of food, the smell of other creatures, and the smell of the intriguing unknown.

In his mind they had as much depth, length, and variation as the sight of smoky tendrils rising from the smoldering piles of rubbish would have in a human mind. Some wove through the landscape, some of them roiled in place, and some of them spread low and wide like a mist.

He wanted to roll in them. He wanted to find that promise of food. He wanted to give in to this delight of the senses.

He did not. There was the master to consider. Okra glanced at the master. He knew the master did not want him wandering in this alluring place. Okra did not understand why this might be. It frustrated him. It made him quiver with restless yearning.

Finally he just sighed and reluctantly moved away from the sensory promise, closer to the master. Okra was often torn between what he wanted and what the master wanted. While Okra certainly feared the anger of the master, he was pulled more by some innate desire to please the master. Fear he could work around, but this desire to please the master was even more relentless than the compulsion of the senses.

Also, there were the treats.

The dog trotted up to the man and tilted his head inquisitively. A slight smile was returned to him, and just as importantly the hand went into the pocket of the overalls.

That’s a good boy, said the man as he pulled out a small piece of beef jerky and gave it to the dog. I know this place is like a paradise to you, but it isn’t. Not at all; there are dangers all around here, even snakes. Stay with me.

Tobit considered the dog as it considered him. Old folk called this sort of dog an Indian dog. They claimed the animals had been here and about for longer than white men or black men. Many of them were feral or half feral. Even when attached to a man or his family they could be anxious, hardheaded, and easily distracted.

He had found Okra as one of four puppies in a burlap sack along the banks of Ridge Creek. Someone had put the puppies in a sack with a brick and tossed it over the edge of the bank. Coursing between two low ridges, the creek had steeper banks than most creeks in the area, and to the great fortune of the puppies, the sack had snagged on the root of a tree. Only the brick was submerged in the water.

Tobit could not imagine why the culprit had just left them there; perhaps whoever it was simply did not think it worth the effort to climb down the bank and complete the job. The second stroke of luck for the puppies was that Tobit, hearing their plaintive squeals, climbed down the bank and rescued them before a rising tide finished what their erstwhile executioner had not.

Okra was the most contemplative of these puppies, and he was more intent on being with Tobit than the others. He had a very faint melanistic mask, beginning slightly black around his nose and long, dark whiskers, then fading quickly to a pale tan mixed with white. His body was mostly a golden tan, long legged, with a tightly curled tail, and with a rump seeming slightly higher than his shoulders, which was something Tobit noticed as common with what he called jumpy dogs. It was, however, the ears that were first noticed—long, tall, and erect ears.

After those extraordinary ears, the eyes were his most distinctive trait. They were so dark as to be nearly black, but with dark brown fur marking a thin line around them, almost the way a woman might apply makeup. Tobit had thought of them as Egyptian eyes because of the resemblance to the stylized eyes of ancient Egyptian art.

Those eyes were why Okra ended up staying with Tobit, who was not at all sure what he was going to do with these puppies. Times were difficult, but he could not bring himself to complete the grim task another had failed to do. A solution presented itself when, through a peculiar string of coincidences, a white professor from the Agricultural and Mechanical College in Raleigh turned up with an interest in the dogs.

The man explained that he was intrigued by the phenomenon of feral dogs across the world, and the way they seemed to be of similar size, build, and coloration. He brought pictures of dingoes, Canaan dogs, and pariah dogs from other parts of the world.

He also showed Tobit photos of the kennels and runs where the dogs would be kept, and made assurances that they would be well kept and suffer no harm, as he was most interested in their personalities and their nature. As it turned out, he was least interested in Okra of the four because he was larger and had those peculiar eyes. The professor suspected that maybe Okra had a different father than the others, as sometimes happened with dogs. He doubted that Okra was of as primal stock as his siblings.

This worked for Tobit. Those eyes that set Okra apart from the other puppies were what attracted Tobit to him. Tobit himself was known for his own extraordinary eyes, and he felt an immediate kinship to the dog. So the other three went off with the rich, white professor and Okra stayed with the poor, black, jobless man.

Tobit smiled and looked down as Okra sniffed his master’s fingers with a pointy wet nose to make certain no more treats were forthcoming. That black nose, those dark eyes, and those tall ears all seemed focused tightly upon wherever the dog’s interest might rest at any given time.

Tobit chuckled to himself. Okra was not a big dog, maybe forty pounds or so, but he was tough. Not fearless, he could be quite uncertain and nervous, but there was always a point beyond which he would not be pushed.

He winked at the dog, Enough of all that now. Just stay close by. I’ve got to get on with some work.

Tobit turned his gaze now to the dump around them. This was the source of Okra’s fascination. Tobit found it less intriguing, especially on a hot day such as this. The smell of rotting food and stale ash permeated the air. He had dabbed some Mentholatum Ointment between his nostrils to offset the stench until he was acclimated. He had work to do.

A large chest of drawers had caught his attention. First it had to be dragged up and over less promising garbage. He removed the drawers first, stacking them near the cart where his mule, Joe-boy, stood patiently waiting. Then he heaved the chest itself up and over.

With that bit of exertion done, Tobit stood up and removed his straw hat so that he could wipe away the sweat from his brow with a broad handkerchief. As he replaced the hat and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket, he heard from behind him a series of clipped snaps.

That’s a good boy, he chuckled, as he watched Okra leaping and snapping at the flies attracted to the stoic mule. It was entertainment for the dog and relief for Joe-boy.

Make yourself useful.

He returned his attention to the dresser. It would need refinishing, to be sure. One of the squat legs was missing. A few of the drawers had loose joints, but all in all it was a good find, and something within his ability to repair.

Tobit straightened up from his inspection and surveyed the hellish scene around him. The county had only recently burned and bulldozed the garbage heap. There were still small coils of smoke wisping up from the ash. Pickings were always slim following a burn.

The dresser was a good find because there was naught else to be found today, he thought. The dresser meant the short trip from his home had not been a waste.

He moved the stack of drawers onto the mule cart, and then hefted the dresser up behind them on its back so that it would not tip over. Then he clambered up onto the wooden bench and patted it. Okra sprang onto the seat beside Tobit, and his focus of nose, eyes, and ears burned forward as Joe-boy responded to a light slap of the reins and began pulling them homeward.

The graveled road curved through an expanse of second-growth pine before intersecting a cracked and worn asphalt road. The older, tar-bound macadam shone in patches beneath the neglected asphalt surface. Once this had been one of the main roads winding through the county, but the building of a bridge over Rush-Knott Creek had rendered this loop of the road redundant.

The cart and its load creaked as the wheels rolled through the rutted end of the gravel road and up onto the raised pavement. As man, mule, and dog turned their gaze southward along the road, Tobit sighed at the sight of a white car rolling toward them through the heat shimmering off the pavement.

The pot-light on top of the car flashed red. Lord, that man loved to play with those lights, thought Tobit. Tobit knew what was next, and he heard the truncated wail of the siren. Okra tilted his head quizzically at the sound of it.

Tobit coaxed Joe-boy to a halt. The curve of Okra’s tail thumped against the back of the wooden seat until Tobit’s shush told him they would not be dismounting. The white car coasted with a slight squeal of brakes until it came to a stop, and the pale, sweat-glistened, white face of the driver was opposite Tobit.

Toby.

Sheriff, replied Tobit, with a polite tip of two fingers to the brim of his hat. The young sheriffs patronizing greeting grated, but Tobit’s expression remained unreadable. The sheriffs grandfather, Judge Oliver, would have at least used a man’s proper name, even if he was a black man. The judge would have included a mister if the man was significantly older than himself. No Toby for the judge. Mister Tobit was what it would have been.

What you got back there? asked young sheriff Oliver.

Just an ol’ chest-o-drawer I found at the dump. Looks like I can fix it up for selling. Reckon times are improving that folk can throw away something that’s not beyond use.

Oliver nodded amiably enough, though his eyes remained cold, dark, and calculating. I’m right glad you’ve found a way to make a living, Toby. Had you played straight with me it wouldn’t have come to this.

Tobit sighed and shifted his gaze to the nearby shallow ditch so as not to betray his anger. He gathered himself to look back at the sheriff, even as he brushed one of his large, worn hands along Okra’s back to ease some of the tension the dog had picked up from his master’s brief moment of irritation. Okra did not care much for the sheriff to begin with.

Now, Sheriff, I have always played straight with you, sir. I can’t let on to things I know nothing about.

Oliver’s gaze hardened even more, and the pleasant façade faded. Toby, I know your pappy and you got into some trouble o’er in Lawson County.

Yessir, I reckon we did, Tobit sighed. They had been over this many times. Seems trouble can find a man no matter what he has done, or not done. I told you before that neither my father nor I have ever dealt with the ‘shine. Sheriff Quinn and that old police chief in Harper Bay had other reasons for disliking my father. Reasons I guess we both know, but ‘shining wasn’t one of them.

A look of exasperation passed over the sheriffs face as his fingers toyed at the brim of the hat sitting on the seat next to him. He gazed back up at Tobit, trying to look officious, but to Tobit he looked like a flatulent toad.

Toby, whatever may be the truth about that, you are likely to hear things. All you colored people are tight.

How many times was this man going to work Toby into this conversation? thought Tobit, who kept his composure and shook his head ruefully.

Not so tight as white folk might think. If they know you don’t hold with something, they aren’t likely to speak of it to you no matter the color of your skin.

The round, sweaty, pasty face formed a frustrated frown as the car was put into gear before the sheriff spoke again. I reckon you had it nice, Toby, back in my grandpa’s day. Ain’t got to be the way it is now, but that’s up to you. I plan on running all the ‘shiners out of this county. I reckon you best remember that it was being uppity that got your pappy run out of Harper Bay. You should take care you don’t make the same mistake.

With that the sheriff’s car roared off with a crunch of loose gravel beneath its tires. Tobit steadied Joe-boy before urging him on with a slight pop of the reigns. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the sheriff’s car rounding the bend in the road behind him.

Tobit snorted to himself. Driving the ‘shiners out of the county? More like making sure they paid him to operate in these parts. It was a dangerous game that young man played. The small-time ‘shiners were one thing, but the fingers of big-city gangsters were stretching into these backwoods counties.

While Tobit was lost in his thoughts, Joe-boy turned by habit into the long lane home. The crunch of the oyster shells Tobit used to gravel the drive brought him out of his musings. Chickens that were looking for bits of crushed-shell calcium protested with indignant clucks as the uncaring mule plodded through their scattering flock.

On the right side of the lane Tobit’s beehives sheltered in the filtered shade of long, lean pines. On the left side was a small field where he grew strawberries, with a boundary of blueberry shrubs near the edge of his property.

His home was a white, two-story frame structure. It was beginning to need painting, but that would have to wait, given his money problems. It had been built by freed slaves, from whose heirs Tobit had bought it.

As Joe-boy made his way to the unpainted barn, Tobit mused on his own mother having been born into slavery, though she never claimed any memory of it. His father had been born a freeman, as had his grandfather. Neither had been born in the Americas.

His grandfather had been born somewhere in North Africa. There were conflicting stories involving the Tell Atlas mountains, or, conversely, Tunisia. What was more certain was that his family had originated in those mountains and then moved somewhere near Tunis.

The old man claimed that they were from a holdout clan of Christian Berbers. Given the time frame, midnineteenth century, this seemed unlikely to Tobit, and there had been some insinuation that his grandfather had adopted this story to justify having assisted the French in their conquests in North Africa. Still, his name, Augustine, hinted at some tradition related to the lost Christianity of the Maghreb.

Augustine had become a runner for the French forces, and hence the surname Messager. At some point Augustine saved the life of a young captain, Tobiel Saint-Sauveur, who belonged to a wealthy and influential French family. He became semiofficially attached to this young, rising officer and served him across the far-flung Second French Empire.

During that service Augustine wed the daughter of an Ethiopian merchant. They followed the French officer to Martinique, where Tobit’s father, Tobiel, was born, named in honor of the officer. It was there that the officer died as the result of a duel with the offended brother of one dalliance or another.

Saint-Sauveur’s will stipulated that a generous cash payment be made to Augustine, and the family honored it. With this bequest, Augustine set his eye on the opportunities in the growing American nation. He settled in New Orleans because he thought his knowledge of French would serve him well. He also made his legal name Augustine Freeman Messager, and that of his son Tobiel Freeman Messager.

The family thrived in New Orleans. Tobiel eventually moved to the coast of the Carolinas to expand the family business, and it was there that Tobit was born and baptized, Tobit Freeman Messager.

Tobit laughed to himself. All his life other colored folk had been irritated by his middle name. They thought it snobbish and an aspersion on their own slave descent. In truth, while Augustine’s Berber ancestry made him overly proud of his free status, his wife had been colored, and Tobit’s own mother had been born in slavery, so Tobit felt their irritation to be as snobbish as what they imagined from the Messagers—none of which kept him from naming his own son Tobias Freeman Messager.

As Tobit climbed from the cart to unload the dresser, Okra leapt down to hunt for mice or rats. He was often a timid dog around people, and unsettled by loud noises, but he was bold with rodents. He followed a scent into the cornfields that bordered Tobit’s property.

Tobit had dreamed of one day buying the fields on either side of his own place. He once had seven acres altogether, enough for his bees, his berries, some fruit trees, and a large garden. A half acre was mostly useless swampy woodland that descended toward Rush-Knott Creek. There were thirty acres of land on either side that he had long planned to purchase and make a proper farm.

Now that no longer seemed possible, and his jaw set tight as he thought about it. He led Joe-boy into the paddock, offering him an apple in payment for his work. It was the crash of ’29 and that boy-sheriff who had disrupted the dream. The money was gone now, and he had even had to sell two acres along the north boundary so that he could pay off the overall mortgage.

All he had was four acres, including the swampy land, a cow, and the mule. Even making the taxes was growing difficult. The assessors were harder on Negroes than they were on white folk, and the Lord help you if a white man with powerful friends had set his sight on your property.

Tobit often did not sleep well as his mind pondered the possibility of losing this place. He knew he was better off than many folk; at least he had enough property for some level of self-sufficiency. Still, it haunted him.

He sighed. Once he had envisioned buying those acres so that he would have enough land to lease out when he was too old to tend it himself. That would have let his wife, Anna, and him stay on this place and not be a burden to their son, Tobias.

Tobit shook his head as he checked the wooden handles he had lathed and was curing. When they were dry enough he would do the final sanding. He sometimes found spades, rakes, and such that people had thrown away simply because the handles had broken. He would turn new handles, with a foot-powered lathe he and Tobias had cobbled together, and sell the repaired tools, when he could. Between the unspoken threats of the sheriff and the resentment of many of his own folk, Tobit could not count on anything resembling a fair price.

The resentment rose from his former position as a purchasing agent for Judge Oliver, combined with his having moved into the county from the city, if Harper Bay counted as a city. It was not that the judge was an unfair man; it was just that any kind of bartering sets up at least a trace of an adversarial relationship. It was worse among his fellow Negroes when a white man would be the most significant beneficiary. At the same time they harbored resentment for colored folk who might be building wealth, as if it were a betrayal of their race to do so.

Then there was also Tobit’s religion. Colored folk in this part of the country had only a little less suspicion of Catholics than did the white Protestants. They appreciated the schools opened by missionary orders, but remained imbued with fundamental distrust of papists. In Tobit’s case, they thought him standoffish and somehow outside of the community formed by the

Reviews for Tobit's Dog

[judith watson · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book! I had just finished a Scripture study of the Book of Tobit and decided to read this book. I loved the similarities and the deep Biblical wisdom woven in the story. Angels walk among us, truly. And there is no happily ever after until heaven. God is with us and He is good, all of the time.